Need For Speed: The Cobra's Bite
by CrowSeetan
Summary: A crossover of NFS: Hot Pursuit, and The Crew. Officer Jack Crowley is a four year veteran of the Seacrest County Police Department, working as a patrol officer with the Highway Patrol section. During a shift just before Thanksgiving, his career is accelerated as he becomes involved in the chase against the 510 Syndicate, a nation-wide gang of brutal thieves with tricked out rides.
1. Chapter 1: Welcome to the Hills

**Chapter One: Welcome To The Hills**

 **Highway Seacrest County, CA**

 **11/21/2016 - 12:21:03pm**

* * *

 _Seacrest County is a large location in northern California, home to mountain ranges, desert regions, and numerous coastal cities and lush farming towns. The dedicated officers and deputies of the Seacrest County Police and Sheriff's Departments patrol and enforce the law in this popular county, ensuring that the area is free from crime and safe for all. With only three days until Thanksgiving, the SCPD is working hard, along with their rival agency, the California Highway Patrol, to bust any vehicle code violations they can, with the added threat of the rising presence of the national stolen vehicle and smuggling organization, the 5-10 motor club. SCPD Officer II Jack Crowley, merely a few months after a six month relationship, has dedicated nearly all his time and energy to the department, approaching his four year anniversery with the department. Assigned to the central division of the county, Seacrest City, and the highways around it, Jack prepares himself for the onslaught of rush hour traffic, and the occasional racer... only slightly aware of the growing threat from the 5-10's..._

Highway 6 was relatively full with holiday traffic. Families with kids inside frolicked and laughed, making a positive trip out of the jammed drive. The slow lanes were full of trucks bearing surplus thanksgiving goods. Everything was calm, so calm, in fact, that an officer in a Ford Crown Victoria Police Interceptor wished something would happen. Officer II Jack Crowley had been working for the Seacrest County Police Department as a patrol officer for nearly four years. He adjusted the seat a bit, watching the traffic crawl by. _Another wonderful day_ , he thought to himself, looking at the Mobile Data Computer mounted in the car. There were a few calls, but they were all assigned to the city's patrol division. He was assigned to the highway running through Seacrest City today, the result of drawing the short straw during briefing. He'd seen a few California Highway Patrol cars roll by, but they ignored him. Seacrest County was unique in the sense that their police department covered their highways, to the annoyance of the CHP. Although they were the child department of the Seacrest County Sheriff's Department, and only responded to residential and commercial cars within the city limits, the highways were under their full care and guard, with numerous SCPD units roaming the highways at any given time. It wasn't that the chippies weren't able to do their job, but it was simply the fact that when it came to highway and traffic enforcement, SCPD were the champions. The state's highest funded law enforcement entity, the department had a highly coveted section, the Pursuit Intervention Unit, designed to tackle the multitude of black market stolen vehicles rolling into Seacrest County, as well as the associated street races and gangs that ran with them. Jack had only seen a PIU car once, and saw that it was some sort of Corvette, but when he asked his superiors about it, he was told to politely "keep that nose in his own fuckin' paygrade". Whatever... he though, as exited the MDC, and patted the steering wheel of the car. The LIDAR on the car displayed speeds of 30 and under, which annoyed the crap out of him. What was he even here for? His stomach grumbled with mild hunger, and he reached for the Crown Vic's shifter and put it in drive, before he merged into traffic and moved off the highway. He pulled into a 7/11, and parked in the red, leaving the cruiser on and locking it.

"6 Adam 5, 912 (requesting) a Code 7 (meal break)." he radioed dispatch.

"Dispatch, Adam 5, you are clear for Code 7." replied the dispatcher.

Jack made a subtle gesture of victory and stepped inside the 7/11, nodding to the cashier.

"Hey Becca." he said, beelining for the soda machine.

"Afternoon, Officer Crowley… how's the shift?" Becca replied. She was a young blonde girl, 17 if he recalled correctly. She used this job to help fund her ice skating. She was good… like soon-to-be-Olympian good.

"Eh, slow. Not much going on." Jack said, grabbing a Big Gulp and filling it with Coke.

"No ice? It's hot out."

"Nope, if I get a call, and it sits in the car, the ice melts down and waters down the drink. The cruiser's inside is pretty cool, so hopefully that's enough." he said, putting a lid on the drink and poking the straw though. He then grabbed a ready made sandwich from the fridge, and a bag of Lay's potato chips, before heading to the counter. Becca scanned the items, before handing them back to him, smiling. He shook his head, reaching for his wallet.

"Nope, sorry… already done." she giggled, crumpling the receipt.

"You little… you gotta stop comping my food. I can pay, y'know."

"Or what, is Denesh gonna fire me? He loves me like his own daughter. Plus, he loves when you guys come in and grab a bite."

"Mmm… well, I appreciate it regardless." he said, grabbing his stuff. He dropped a ten dollar bill on the counter, and pointed at her when he noticed that she was about to protest.

"I don't wanna hear it, kid. Now… have a good shift, and let me know how your next session goes. I wanna hear about the regionals."

"You got it, Officer. Be safe!" she called after him. He made his way back to the car, and sat down inside. He took a long sip from the Big Gulp, the cold, fizzy soda bringing an immense satisfaction to him. He looked up and spotted a Ford Explorer Police Interceptor pulling into the parking lot. It passed the 7/11 and pulled up alongside his driver's side, facing the back of his car. It was a CHP unit, and Jack grinned, recognizing the man in tan driving it.

"'Sup, Mooch." he said, rolling his window down.

"Crowley. What's good?" Mooch replied. Mooch, or Officer Ralph Muchuy, was one of the few chippies to not only acknowledge Jack, but maintain a friendly presence with him. Mooch was liked by the SCPD, and his presence on SC highways was tolerated, so long as he kept himself in check. Jack jerked a thumb towards the MDC.

Mooch squinted and whistled, "Daaaaamn that's alot of blank space. Is it that slow? I swear, it's the fuckin' holidays. I got… five fender-benders, six 'aggressive' driver complaints, and I had a DUI report, but that ended up being a 95 year old Asian lady who was about as visual gifted as a brick."

"Heh, trade you. I had about 400 drivers go 30 MPH. Real hardcore police shit."

"Whoa whoa, calm down there, SWAT. Save some of the action for us little guys, yeah?"

"Yeah yeah…." Jack laughed, opening the wrapper of his sandwich.

"All units, be advised, 211V (Vehicle Robbery) in progress. Multiple vehicles fleeing after ramming an armored truck and securing its contents. Subjects are armed, heading southbound on Highway 6, passing Harmony Boulevard. Responding units, identify." dispatch called. Jack rewrapped his sandwich, tossing it into his backpack on the passenger side floor, and grabbed his mic.

"6 Adam 5, ending Code 7. I'll be responding, Code 3. (Lights and siren)." he said, before throwing his seatbelt on. Mooch was doing the same, flipping his lights on. Jack nodded to him, before slamming on the gas and pulling out of the parking lot. He soon found himself merging onto the highway, and spotted a line of black cars driving on the shoulder. In the front was a black Chevy Camaro, lifted and with a pushbar. Behind it, a black Ford E350 cargo van, the rear part of the truck appearing weighed down by something. Following in the rear, black as well, was a Ford Focus RS, and a Ford Raptor, also lifted and with heavy bullbars mounted on the front. All of the cars had a silver cobra stenciled on the sides towards the back, an indicator that they were part of a racing crew. Jack narrowed his eyes. The Cobras were one of the most ruthless and dangerous crews out there. The worst part, they were based in Seacrest County, meeting during the night and performing during the day. The SCPD had barely any luck making moves against the Cobras, and yet here they were, barreling past traffic at 60 MPH. Jack turned on his lights, and fought his way through the traffic, before hauling and catching up to the Focus. None of the suspect cars had license plates, a fact that irritated him further.

"6 Adam 5, show me in pursuit of suspect vehicles, southbound on 6, passing Sundance." he said to dispatch, before hanging up the mic and maintaining a distance behind the cars. They weaved in and out of cars, barely slowing down, before moving to an offramp and merging on the 264 freeway. Traffic was clearer here, so the cars broke their line and moved in a wedge formation, weaving through slower cars. Jack kept on them, inching closer to the rear of the Focus. The car sped up, refusing to let him get close, and he moved past it, creeping instead onto the the E-350. The van shifted a bit, and Jack was certain the driver was eyeing him through his side view mirror. Suddenly, Jack noticed something drop out of the bottom of the van, sliding on the highway. He swerved hard to avoid it, and caught a glance at it in his own mirrors. It was a spikestrip. The strip caught Mooch's cruiser, snapping together and causing him to spin out, hitting the center divider and coming to a halt.

"6 Adam 5, vehicles are equipped with spikes. CHP unit was hit. Minor crash."

"Copy… Pursuit Intervention is advising on scene." dispatch replied. Jack looked out his drivers side window, and spotted a black and white SCPD Ford Shelby Mustang. The car flew past his, making its way towards the Camaro in the front, driving alongside it. The van moved behind the Mustang, focusing on it. Jack to the opportunity to move up and align his push bar with the corner of the van, preparing the spin it out. He grinned, inching closer and closer.

"P2 Sam 3, terminate pursuit. Vehicles are driving too reckless. All units stand down and let pursuit take over."

"Adam 5, I have the van ready for a pit maneuver, standby."

"Negative, pull off. We'll take it from here."

"Fuck!" Jack said, slamming on his steering wheel, before turning off his lights and pulling over. The cars and Mustang disappeared, and a moment later, three more PIU cars went flying by. Jack growled and exited the highway, before making his way back to the station.

* * *

He got back to the SCPD station, driving into the underground structure. There, a few police explorers approached, taking his keys and moving the car to a spot to be cleaned. He checked his phone, and was relieved to see a text from Mooch indicating that he was okay and about to be chewed out for destroying his car. Jack slipped the phone into his pocket, and walked to the patrol watch commanders office, knocking on the door.

"Come in."

Jack opened the door, and nodded to the officer inside.

"Hey Sarge, got a minute?"

"Yeah, sure thing. What's going on?" asked the sergeant, Andre Holloway. He was a large African-American male, with a shaved head and serious expression. But he was a good sergeant, and a good cop, and as such, was well respected by his peers.

"You catch the ending of that chase?"

"Yeah… PIU lost 'em. Drives me crazy. Millions of dollars in that unit alone and they couldn't chase down a fucking cargo van. Sorry that they bumped you off the chase. That was Sergeant Latimore… there's no way I'm gonna be able to supersede him." he said, sighing.

"It's fine." Jack said, sitting down. "It was a 5-10 crew, wasn't it."

"'Fraid so, goddamn… first Detroit, New York, and now they're creeping onto my fucking highways. SC Sheriff's Organized Crime isn't saying anything, and yet I'm still having armored trucks getting hit on the highways."

"Sounds rough, sir."

"It is… and not to mention, Pursuit Intervention's got their hands full with all the kiddy racers who've been coming here to try to take them on. Every 20 something year old with a poorly tricked out Honda Civic, taking time off work from McDonalds to come try to run a race for what, five grand?"

"What about CHP?"

"Don't even start. We're lucky we have CHP even answering phone calls. Ever since we got the PIU grant, CHP's been about as friendly to us as the 5-10s. The only one I even hear from is whats-his-name… Hooch?"

"Mooch, sir. He's a good cop. He was there during the chase but he got clipped with a spikestrip from the Cobras."

"I heard. Another reason for CHP to bill us for a replacement unit. Either way, I got SOME good news out of this. And you'll like it too." Sergeant Holloway said, reaching for his desk and handing Jack a folder.  
"What's this?" Jack asked, flipping it open and looking over some of the documents in it.

"We got one lead. We got a call from a stringer who was trying to get footage of the pursuit. I guess one of the vehicles dumped something near an old gas station. I got it mapped, but I've got no units to check it in the area. Half of 'em are stuck in traffic on their way to other calls. Go by, start a perimeter for me and see if it's worthwhile."

"You got it, sarge." Jack said, standing up. He walked out of the station, back to his waiting unit, and hopped in.

Jack pulled into the gas station parking lot and parked behind the building. He stepped out, stretching as he examined his surroundings, and began walking around. The old 76 station was still intact, although there was a substantial amount of graffiti on the building, and the doors of the bathroom were broken in, probably due to becoming makeshift shelters for the occasional druggy too doped out to make it home. Jack grabbed his nightstick from the back of his seat, just in case, and began looking around the building, making his way to the road. He could clearly see the tire tracks of the various 5-10 cars, and noticed one set moving oddly close to the road. Raising a brow, he made his way over, and turned to look towards the field next to the station. There, at the edge of the field, almost over the edge of the parking lot, was a damaged wooden crate. It still had a few broken cables hanging off it, and Jack figured that it was at one point on that Raptor, but had snapped off and rolled into the field after a harsh turn. He made his way over, kneeled next to it, and looked for a label.

"HCM Corporation - CAUTION - Sensitive Equipment"

Jack rubbed his chin in thought, wondering what the hell this thing could be. HCM was a defensive vehicle aftermarket company just outside of Seacrest County, with warehouses nationwide. They specialized in vehicular defense, including armor, high powered computer systems, and various other modifications. Seacrest County PD was an avid buyer of their mods, including high tech spikestrips and EMP based devices. Jack pulled out his phone, looking for Sergeant Holloway's number, when he heard a truck pulling into the gas station. He ducked down, moving to the woods and hiding behind a tree, before peeking out and spotting the black Ford Raptor cruising up to the crate. It came to a stop, and the driver and passenger stepped out. The driver was a larger man, wearing black tactical pants and a black hoodie. He had heavy chains hanging around his waist, and although he couldn't confirm it, Jack could swear he was wearing some form of body armor. He instantly drew his Glock 9mm, racked it, and held it at a low ready. He crouched and listened to the two come closer.

"See that? I fucking told ya it'd be here, mate. Damn shite popped off when that cop started trying to cut me off." said the driver with a rather thick Scottish accent.

"Well then get it back onto the truck and let's bounce. I feel like there's a cop nearby. Scanner was going off in the truck. Probably a speeder trap nearby."

"Fine fine." driver said, crouching and grabbing the crate. "Ahh fuck… she's busted right up."

"Don't worry… it's sturdier then it looks. Get it loaded up and we'll take it back to the place. Might even be able to get it wired onto one of the cars." the passenger said, turning and heading back to the truck. Jack moved silently along the woods, creeping towards his cruiser, hoping that they didn't see it along the back of the building. Just as he got close, however, the Ford Focus drove up, passing right by his car and skidding to a halt by the Raptor.

"Hey you fuckers, there's a cop here!" the Focus driver called out.

"Shite!" shouted the Raptor driver, throwing the crate into the back of his truck. Jack stepped out, grabbing the mic on his shoulder.

"6 Adam 5, I have visual on suspects in the 211 earlier. One black Ford F-150 and a Ford Focus, at the old 76 station of Jefferson!" he radioed, and hearing the voices of other officers heading over, he aimed his weapon at the Raptor drive, who was reaching for the door.

"Don't fucking move, asshole. Lemme see your hands!" he ordered. The driver glared at him, before reaching back and throwing something at him. Jack ducked, a wrench clattering on the ground. He looked back up and saw that the Raptor and Focus were peeling out, heading down the road. Jack cursed and hopped in his car, turning on the lights and siren and speeding after them.

"6 Adam 5, Pursuit Intervention has been activated and is en route to your location now." dispatch called. Jack copied, and continued his chase. The Raptor was driving extremely aggressively, swerving into his path and brake checking him. Jack kept a steady distance from it, knowing that any hard hit from it would put him out of the chase. The Focus came up alongside him, and Jack only shot it a glance… though it was enough to spot the driver raising a handgun and aiming at him through the window. Jack slammed on the brake, almost spinning out, just as the Focus' passenger window exploded outwards. He'd been shot at… and now he was pissed. He moved behind the Focus, preparing to align his push bar with the rear of the car, when he saw it drop a spikestrip. Unable to turn out of the way, Jack simply floored it, gunning the car forward. He went over the strip, hearing his tires blow, but also rammed into the back of the Focus, lifting it up and causing it to start swinging, it's driver fighting to maintain control. The Focus swerved towards the side of the road, onto the embankment, and began to roll, pieces of it flying off as it crashed. Jack's cruiser rumbled to a halt on the shoulder, it's tires destroyed, but the car itself intact. The Raptor roared down the road, slowing at first, before disappearing. Jack stepped out of his car, running over to the Focus, which was on its roof, smoking. The gas tank had ruptured, and Jack could smell the fuel running down the car and soaking the ground. The front of the car began to smoke harder, flames peeking out, and Jack drew the nightstick, smashing the remainder of the window out.

"Get out now!" he shouted at the driver, who was barely conscious, groaning in pain. Jack tossed the nightstick and pulled out his pocket knife, cutting through the seatbelt and trying to tug the driver out of the car. The fire started spreading, inching towards the gas tank. He heard sirens stop behind him, and kept trying to pull the driver out of the car. He finally managed to get him out of the car, and hurled him over his shoulder, running towards the flashing lights of his backup. Some of them came towards him, and he shouted out, "GET BACK! IT'S GONNA GO!"

The other officers immediately turned for cover, and he moved as fast as he could with the driver over his shoulder. The car exploded, and he felt a wave of heat rush over him, before feeling something hard clip the back of his head, knocking him out. Jack hit the grass, vision fading, the driver hitting the ground too, and simply laid there as his vision went to black.


	2. Chapter 2: Skipping the Tutorial

**Chapter Two: Skipping The Tutorial**

 **SCPD Central Station,** **Seacrest City, CA**

 **11/23/2016 - 05:52:33am**

* * *

 _Only suffering minor injuries, Jack returns to work merely two days after his encounter with the 5-10's. Although his brief brush with the PIU left a bad taste in his mouth, he prepares to launch his own mission against them, starting with the man in custody._

Jack closed the door of his locker, letting out a sigh as he racked his handgun and locked it into its holster. He grabbed his duty bag and the AMP energy drink on the bench, and began to make his way through the open hallway of the station. He passed the main lobby, glancing over at the desk sergeant who was having a grand day handling a multitude of pissed off citizens wondering why they received citations on the eve of Thanksgiving. Jack simply continued, glad he wasn't on desk. His head still ached, the acetaminophen prescribed to him barely having any effect. He was offered heavier pain medicine, but he didn't take it, knowing that it could have a bad effect on his work, and he had a feeling that the sentence "Hey sarge, just so you know I'm on hydrocodone." would send him to the clerk's desk to file the cited parties' court dates and take the mostly false complaints about the horrific conduct of the officer who stopped them. He entered the briefing room, and caught his spot, grinning at the others inside. He glanced at his watch. _5 minutes till 6AM, morning shift._ He was actually rather excited. He had planned to visit Central Holding to speak with the 5-10 gang member he'd caught the other day, to maybe build up his own investigation on their activity in Seacrest… or at least try, before CHP could come in and snatch it. Sergeant Holloway stepped inside, carrying a notepad and a Starbucks cup. Jack didn't take the sarge for a Starbucks drinker, having always seen him using the ancient machine in the break room, so today must be special. Regardless, he assumed that the coffee inside the cup wasn't some form of Frappuccino, but instead had the color and taste of old motor oil. Holloway dropped his pad on the end of the table, looking over the whiteboard, contemplating his existence a moment, before turning towards the others.

"Alright kids. First off, I'd like to welcome Officer Crowley back to the team, after an entire 48 hours of not getting in a police chase and catching a lug nut to the back of the dome." he said. Scattered laughter among the officers rang out, and Jack felt a few pats on the back from some nearby guys. He grinned.

"Alright, calm down. Now, as you know, the incident that involved Officer Crowley has attracted the attention of the Seacrest County Board of Supervisors. The school board, PTA, and numerous other neighborhood watch groups have set a date with Captain Gomez about what we're doing to leash the increasing 5-10 presence. With us today is Investigator Hutchens with the Seacrest County Sheriff's Department, Organized Crime Unit. She has some intel on the current operations of the Cobras. Shut your mouths and listen." Holloway said, taking a sip of his motor oil and sitting down. A blonde woman in her 40's stood up, smiling at them, a fat folder in her hands. She opened it up, and began to adjust the papers.

"Good morning officers. My name is Investigator Sarah Hutchens, and as Sergeant Holloway said, I'm with Sheriff's OCU. We've been compiling reports with numerous agencies throughout the state regarding the activities of the 5-10 motor club. The big brass wants me to give you a basic overview, regardless if you know them or not." she said, picking up a sheet and unfolding it, clipping it onto the whiteboard. The picture was of a group of males, all Hispanic, with numerous tattoos, posing in front of a bright red Porsche 911. Although they varied in appearance, there was one similarity: A tattoo of the numbers "5-10" on their necks.

"The 5-10 motor club is a national, soon to be international, organized crime faction specializing in the theft, modification, and racing of high end performance vehicles, as well as robberies of armored cars and convoys. These guys are complete car nuts, souping up hypercars like they've been working on them since birth. Their ranking system is actually based off of engine systems, if you can believe that. Local enforcers are V2s, regional lieutenants are V4, captains are V6, and the big boss is the V8. They are highly secretive of their higher operations, and yet they have one of the highest reputations due to the nature of their activities. In 2015, we've had 89 fatalities related to 5-10 attacks on vehicles. These people were ordinary civilians, driving home from work, and happened to cross an intersection at the wrong time." she said somberly. A few of the officers stared, their jaws cracked. Jack clenched his fist a bit, recalling the pursuit the other day. The Cobras drove recklessly, with no regard for the innocents stuck on the freeway. Hutchens continued, "The motor club is comprised of a multitude of street level gangs, many of which cover large cities and counties. We have very little intel on the heads of the motor club, although some of our informants and witnesses keep mentioning that a Brooklyn based gang known as the Grim Reapers are the current heads of power." she said, pointing up. "Although there are a vast number of gangs within the organization, all of their sworn members bear this ink, typically on the neck or chest. Many of these guys wear similar ink, like a sort of trophy, indicating their rank and skill within the organization. Due to the secretive nature of the organization, we don't have much intel on their numbers, but a recent estimate from the FBI told us that they might have upwards of 45,000 inked members, and countless prospects, waiting to prove themselves as worthy of the ink." she said, before pointing at the picture on the whiteboard. "This is an image pulled off of Facebook of the 'Caballos De Fuego', a Hispanic street gang turned 5-10 MC member, who were based in Los Angeles. They were drug runners for the organization, which in turn fueled their wallets for bigger ops and upgrades, and after a few rides, they were given an offer: Hit an armored convoy for the right to wear the numbers. They successfully took down a Bank of America transport truck, and made off with about five million. All three guards on the truck suffered critical injuries, and one civilian was killed when the truck was forced to swing out, and it rolled into his car. His six year old daughter lived though." she said, looking up at them seriously. Some of them shifted nervously, waiting for her to continue. Sergeant Holloway cleared his throat, eager to end the briefing and go back to sitting in his office. "The Caballos ended up attracting the attention of the LAPD and the LA County Sheriff's Department. Detectives noticed that there was a growing beef between the Caballos and the 5-10's current bosses, something regarding money that they kept from the truck hit. LAPD responded to a shots fired call at their main warehouse, and the entirity of the Caballos with 5-10 ink were found dead inside. It was then discovered that one of their lieutenants, pissed about being ordered around, threatened to snitch. The 5-10's didn't like that." she said, taking the picture down and slipping it back into the folder. She cleared her throat, and looked at each officer at the table. "The 5-10 MC is EXTREMELY thorough, ladies and gentlemen. These guys have zero regard for the lives of others, including law enforcement. They have access to anti-pursuit measures, including spikestrips, radar jammers, and EMP devices. They will ram, shunt, and attempt to go over whatever is in their path. And since we now have one of their guys in custody, we need to be on high alert for these guys." she said, putting a few other photos up on the wall. There were several mugshots, the Cobra logo, and some pictures of various cars.

"The Cobras… Seacrest County's 5-10 chapter. These guys specialize in rapid robberies, both vehicular and commercial. One of their most recent thefts was of a Lamborghini Huracan from a well known TV personality from his alarmed underground garage in his secured home, in a gated community in Seacrest City. And he didn't even know about it until the morning after. Just recently, they managed to breach the HCM Corporation's outlet, and boosted high value EMP technology from the main warehouse." Hutchens said. "We have very few information on their members. They refer to themselves via codenames, and come from all over. The man we have in custody is Kevin "Prancer" Larson, original San Francisco resident and 5-10 ink bearer. Small criminal records, registration violation, barfights, failures to appear… the usual. But he's clammed up hard. Given the reputation of the organization, we have all security measures in place to make sure we can respond to any attempts to break him out. The local V2, a guy nicknamed Bruiser, a big guy. I think one of you actually had a run-in with him. Anyone dodge a wrench lately?" she asked, glancing over at Jack a moment. Her attention returned to her report. "OCU will be operating here at Central for the duration of the case against the Cobras, and any information you might have or find, is welcome. We will also be coordinating with the Pursuit Intervention Unit to determine the next steps towards taking them down, and ending the organization's influence on Seacrest County. While they do that, we need you all to work hard at enforcing traffic regulations… These kids racing their cars, driving like idiots up and down, they need to be curbed so that PIU can focus on the 5-10s. Be safe out there, all." She said, taking her pictures and exiting the room. Holloway grumbled and stood, tossing his coffee cup towards the trash can. It missed.

"Alright kids, given the information presented to us by our friendly neighborhood detectives, I'm mandating hard plates." Sarge said. Many of the officers groaned and voiced their negative opinions on that. Although they wore kevlar vests under their uniforms, they all carried hard steel plate armor in their cars, for use in tactical situations. During times of emergency or heightened threats to officers, the supervisor on duty was able to order them to wear them during their shifts. An example of this was during the Chris Dorner situation in 2013, where officers statewide went on a heightened alert. The complaints from the officer in briefing fell on deaf ears, however.

"Oh shut up, you'll end up thanking me when you catch a nine mil to the chest and end up able to walk it off." he said in annoyance. "So, we're gonna go off of yesterday's deployment schedules. Highway Patrol, I want eyes on any tryhard in a ricer that goes over the speed limit. If they have registration issues, tow them. Some of these idiots' dreams is to become an ink bearer with the organization. Let's choke that dream up a bit, yeah? Alright, get your gear set, get loaded, get out, and get back here safe at shift change. Dismissed… oh, and Crowley, my office please." Holloway said, stepping out. Jack frowned, wondering what he did this time, before standing up and walking out after the sergeant. He walked into his office, and sat down.

"How're you feeling?" Holloway asked, leaning back in his chair.

"Good, sarge. Honestly, I'm shocked. Doc said it could've been bad, but… I feel great."

"Good. So, you're probably shitting yourself, wondering why I called you in here."

"Well… that's a… colorful way of putting it… but yeah, I'm kind of confused here."

"Heh, trust me… you'll get used to that. It happens to me all the time. When I go to Starbucks and they asked me how to spell 'Dre', I get confused. When I get a call in the middle of the night from Deputy Chief Briggs complaining because a bunch of pissed off soccer moms are blowing him up, I get confused. When I get a transfer form requesting that you be placed in the Pursuit Intervention Unit, while maintaining your position in my squad, WITHOUT running the PIU's vehicle test, I get REAL fucking confused." he said, tossing a few papers on the desk. Jack widened his eyes. It actually was a transfer request… for him to be placed in the Pursuit Intervention Unit immediately. Holloway was still listed as his commanding officer. He looked it over, his jaw dropping a bit, before looking up at Holloway, raising a brow. Holloway foresaw his question.

"I don't know why, Crowley." Holloway said. "Apparently Captain Gomez liked the balls you swung around when you took down an active 5-10 ink bearer and went toe to toe with the local V2. That or she thinks you're cute, which I would have to say is the least likely of those two. Either way, you're to report to their main office… provided you want to. PIU is a one in a lifetime opportunity. We have less applications for SWAT then for PIU. We have detectives high up in rank that are willing to take a pay cut to get back in uniform if it meant getting on the unit. If you refuse, I will shove a four cell Maglite up your ass, and then make you sit at the front desk until you make Lieutenant."

"Well, on THAT note, how could I refuse?" Jack said, a grin forming.

"Now don't get all hard just yet. Until you undergo the full training and all your certifications, you're still under my command, so if you head over there and talk shit, and it gets back to me, I'll have you writing parking tickets outside of Walmart…"

"...until I make lieutenant… I got it, sarge." Jack said, gathering the papers and standing up. He picked his drink up from the desk, and let out a sigh. Pursuit Intervention… but why? Outside of a three year career on the highways, and the recent takedown of this Prancer guy, his history in the department was rather bland. He looked it over, then looked back up at Holloway, who met his gaze with a textbook 'Get-the-fuck-out" look. He complied, leaving and moving down the halls, and to the elevator. He knew the PIU's office was down in the second level of the underground garage, so he set the elevator to head there. Once it landed, the doors opened, and he was greeted by a small lobbyway, with a few desks and cubicles set up. There was an open doorway that headed to the main garage, and there was a good amount of tools visible through it, as well as a car under a tarp and some toolcarts. Jack looked around, getting a feel for his surroundings. The walls were covered in newspaper articles of famed takedowns throughout the years, as well as large posters of various supercars, like Ferraris and Porsches. Jack took a step closer, looking them over, and cracked open his AMP, when he heard some voices approaching the door.

"...it's the lightbar. I keep telling Latimore that the angular bar is much better then the damn solid strobes he keeps ordering in. Shit cuts seconds off of our lap time."

"I dunno, Hollywood… maybe you're just losing your edge."

"Oh fuck off." Hollywood said, rolling his eyes. "You know it, I know it, Latimore knows it. He's just being a little bitc… oh, hey." he stopped, looking at Jack curiously. Jack offered a nod and a smile, marveling a bit at the uniforms of the two. They were what looked like SCPD uniform jumpsuits, almost resembling those of racecar drivers. Their duty belts were relatively simple, with their handguns holstered on their legs, and a few spare magazines on their belts. The one called Hollywood was a Hispanic male, with jet black hair. The other officer was a younger guy, with brown hair, and glasses. Both of them held vape in their hands, and the younger one took a quick rip of his, before exhaling a large cloud. Crowley wrinkled his nose, the fruity smell invading his senses.

"Jack Crowley… I'm a new transfer… as of… today." he said, extending a hand.

Hollywood returned his handshake, grinning, "Gio Hollywood, welcome aboard. I didn't know we had an entry coming in. Normally Sergeant Latimore's pretty good at letting us know when we have a prospect applying for a slot, let alone a transfer. This is Matt Lennon, former rookie… at least now he is."

Matt laughed, shaking Crowley's hand, and smiled as well. "Ignore this dude… he's one of the vets here. Years of having your own head up your ass and your dick in a new woman every ten minutes does that to you. Sucks about the itch, huh?"

"You got a problem?" Hollywood said, turning to face Lennon, playfully chest bumping him away. The two laughed, before turning their attention back to Jack. "So, where you from hotshot? When'd you nail EVOC?"

"EVOC?" Jack asked, raising a brow.

"Emergency Vehicle Operations Command. The prerequisite to applying for PIU? You must've done good if you just got placed down here without so much as a ride along."

"Holloway, Lennon, cruise off a moment." came a sharp voice from the garage. A third officer, wearing sergeant stripes, entered the room. The other two walked off, and the sergeant looked Crowley up and down, before offering a hand. "Sergeant Latimore. You're Holloway's guy, right?"

"Yes sir. Reporting as requested." Jack replied, holding out the packet. Latimore swiped it and casually tossed it onto a nearby desk. "Good man. Welcome to Pursuit Intervention. Come with me, we'll talk." he said, moving to another door. Jack followed him into an office, with a desk and setup that was worlds nicer then the ones outside. Jack sat down, and watched as Latimore filled up a cup of water, and set it down on the desk. He reached into his wastebasket, and pulled out an empty Coke bottle, taking off the cap and tossing it. He pulled out a can of Copenhagen Wintergreen chewing tobacco, packed his lower lip, and began to spit into the bottle, an action that caused Jack to recoil slightly. He offered the can to Jack, who shook his head. Latimore snickered.

"Everyone down here does it. That, or that stupid vape shit. Most of these guys used to smoke like chimneys, but with command coming down here and busting my balls, I had to improvise. So long as they don't do it in the presence of the brass, they'll just think we have some wierd fruity air fresheners or something. Plus, much better for the cars." he said. Spit.

"I'm glad to hear that. I… don't really smoke or… dip. But, I really don't care. I'll do whatever."

"Good to know. Alright, Crowley… I'll be frank. This is a huge risk on me. But you had a run in with three 5-10 members, one of which is the V2. May not seem like much, but the fact that you walked away from a pursuit with that fucking truck shows me that you got spine, and THAT is something I can work with. For now, you're still working under Holloway, the fat ass, at least until you pass our exams and prove that you're an able driver. Now, that being said, tell me what you know about our humble little unit." he said. Spit. His eyes glared into Jack's soul, but he was unphased.

"Well… as much as the next guy, honestly. It's an honor to be here, for one. I know you use higher class vehicles to engage in pursuits with aggressive, professional, or extremely wanted subjects. I know you're also the frontline against the 5-10 motor club, and that you're the reason CHP hates us." Jack said simply. Latimore laughed hard, shaking his head.

"Fuckin' chippies. Yeah, you're right about that. Don't get me wrong, the CHP works hard, maybe harder then all of us. But when you put a Ford Explorer against a Koenigsegg, well, who do you think is gonna make the mark?" he said. Spit. "Here's the details: The PIU operates a fleet of sports, super, and hypercars, from Mustang Shelbys to Paganis. These cars are… through a series of high level connections and lost paperwork, purchased at a HEAVY discount by the SCPD from their respective manufacturers, in exchange for protection and favors to their dealers and resident executives… within the law, of course. Most of these companies get a FAT writeoff on taxes, as well as a tax free check per car courtesy of the PIU grant. We operate, repair, maintain, and modify these cars ourselves. We have a small crew of mechanics on hand to do whatever it is you need, right here in our happy little garage. Now, our numbers are dwindling, with a total number of ten officers, including myself and you. Throughout the county. PIU has a secondary garage in Fox Lair Pass, and that's where the others are stationed. You've already met Hollywood and Lennon. We've also got our unit lead, Corporal Aarons, who's out doing a test drive on some modifications to his car. Now, based on your driving portfolio…" he stopped, looking up and noticing the confused look Jack gave him. "...I've been reviewing some of your dashcam footage during various chases, while you were out the last few days. I've noticed that you've got some good high speed reflexes, but also know when to avoid a hit, and when to take it. Gunning it over a spikestrip and landing a good pit manuever was a damn impressive move." he said. Spit. "Given all this, I'm gonna try something new. And… well, this is definitely going out on a limb. I'm assigning you to a nice little import we just picked up from Italy. Obviously, you're going to have to take her down to the EVOC center and get acquainted with it, but I feel like you'll do okay. At least, you won't get yourself killed right off the bat."

"I'll take whatever I can get. Anything to help knock some 5-10 heads."

"Haha, alright Turbo. Let's first see how you do in an actual chase behind the wheel of a two million dollar V12 before we send you off after those wrenchheads. Now, if you'll follow me, let's get you suited up, and show you your new gas powered partner."


	3. Chapter 3: Agitating the V8

**Chapter Three: Agitating the V8**

 **28200 Harper Road, Seacrest County**

 **11/23/2017 - 1300 hours**

* * *

 _A warehouse off of Harper Road, called Big Dog Snack Distribution. A black Ford Raptor and a white Subaru WRX pull up hot, skidding to a halt inside the warehouse._

A large man stepped out of the Ford Raptor, slamming the door. He had an long white-blonde hair, tied into a bun, and wore a black hoodie and cargo pants, accompanied by black boots. A leather jacket was worn over the hoodie, and around his waist was a thick coil of chains, that hung over his left leg a bit. He held an envelope in his hand, and made his way to the Subaru. Another driver stepped out, looking at the white haired man, before smiling.

"Damn Bruiser… take a hit lately?"

"Piss off.. You got the money?" Bruiser growled. The other man nodded, and handed him an envelope of his own. Bruiser counted it, and set it on top of his own, before the two made their way through the multitudes of vending machines and cardboard box towers in the warehouse, arriving at a small lunch area, where a few other guys were hanging out at. One of them, a tall man with jet black hair, and wearing a white tank top stood, extending his arms. Good ole Jona… the V4, Bruiser thought.

"Hey Bruiser… Jonny… where we at?"

"Twenty five grand. Just enough for Prancer's bail. Plus a little extra to help get his ride out of impound." Bruiser said.

"Ehh, fuck that. I've got the tow yard removing and making his little… addons disappear." Jona said, taking the envelopes and setting them on the table. He grabbed a cigarette box from his pocket, stuck one into his mouth, and lit it. He offered some to Bruiser and Jonny. Bruiser accepted. Jonny didn't.

"I swear, J, no smokin', no weed or anything. How do you expect to fit in if you ever manage to earn your ink? What's the word on the street?"

"Fucking SCPD is coming in hard. Ryder had his Civic towed for illegal exhaust modifications during that last meet. I got two that barely avoided getting rolled by CHP because of that chase Prancer was in." he said, crossing his arms. "It's fucking hard out here man… SCPD's got some good drivers, and it's only a matter of time before we attract the attention of the PIU again." he said. "Fox Lair Pass is locked down… get this shit, they got a fucking Bugatti parked on the cliffside waiting for anyone passing through. It's madness. I mean, my boys are starting to wonder if they'll ever get a chance for their ink trials?"

"In due time, Jonny… have some faith. Setbacks is all it is." Jonas said, reaching up and resting his hands on Jonny's shoulders. "You're not saying that the 5-10's are unreliable, are you?"

"N-No… sir… it's just… Jonas, we're losing our morale, man. I mean, I'm dealin' with a bunch of kids straight out of fucking high school who are trying to make a name for themselves, and they're looking at me like I'm fucking them. Like, I'm gonna get my ink and just bounce."

"Mate, you'll be lucky if you ever get a chance to earn your ink with SCPD bearing down on us. Which brings up another point. How'd the V6 take the news about Prancer?" asked Bruiser.

"Y'know, when I told him… he just kinda hung up. So I'm guessing, not too hot." Jonas said. "So we got some mad work to do so we can impress him and get our shit back together. West Coast 5-10 has not been having a good time and I swear it won't get better until we can manage a good money hit. Now, I've been talking to a guy I know in Tijuana and he's got a major moneymaker on hand if we're interested. He's got a cache of some cocaine from the Viejo cartel that needs moving into the states. I'm thinking, we get a rig, set it up for offroad, and make our own little route to get it in. That Raptor of yours works just well enough as a point car, right?"

"So you wanna take the situation we're currently in, with SCPD and CHP hot on our asses, not to mention the FBI investigating our general activities out East, and do something that could put the fuckin' DEA on our radars? Sounds like a fast plan to get us raided and jailed, square go-like." Bruiser said, shaking his head. Jonas spat and pulled his cigarette from his mouth.

"Well what in the fuck does our great Scot have in mind? Because it sounds like the only thing you wanna decide is which thumb to stick up your ass."

"Watch your fuckin' tone, V4 or not. I'm saying, we need to up our gamblings on local races from the number of kids racing up here. Make medium amounts of cash in numerous places, and not one big hit that could fuck us if we fail."

"Or maybe, we just try our hardest not to fail. I'm sure you wouldn't have trouble with that, despite your little screw up with Prancer." Jonas shot back. Bruiser tossed his cigarette and stepped up to Jonas. Although the V4 was taller then him, he definitely was built bigger, and he glared right into his face.

"Y'know, mate… that sounded alot like you were blaming me for the shit that went down. Like I was supposed to know the cop would just punch it into a spikestrip. You said it yourself, Prancer was a good driver, but it was goddamn luck he got his ink. He had no clue how to regain control after he took that hit." Bruiser said. "Ain't my fault… but more so whoever it was that put him on the recovery."

"Mind your fucking place, McAllister." Jonas said, "Keep in mind it's me that's convincing the V6 to fund your little family's citizenship application. Wouldn't want them and you to get deported back to deal with the lovely mob you bailed from."

Bruiser was ready to swing into Jonas' smug face, but the arrival of a car in the warehouse ended that. They all walked out to the warehouse doors, and spotted a sleek white Chevy Suburban parked inside, two white Hummer H2's behind it. The driver of the Suburban stepped out, wearing a blank tank top and jeans, and had a multitude of tattoos on his body, most noticeably, the 5-10 ink on his neck and a snake curling up and around the left side of his face.

"Ah, the V6. How goes, Brent. Did not expect to see you here today… how was the drive?" Jonas said, sucking up instantly.

"Oh y'know… long, shitty. It's a long way from Brooklyn." replied the SUV's passenger. Judging by Jonas' reaction, it wasn't the V6. The man stepped outside, a red cane hitting the ground. He was wearing a nice white suit, without a shirt. His bare chest was visible under the blazer, and atop his bald head was a fancy and probably expensive trilby. The man grinned, a few gold teeth glinting at them. He had even more tattoos than the driver, and next to his 5-10 ink, was a tattoo that instantly filled them all with dread. Jonas choked on his words, staring out. Bruiser simply swallowed, dropping his cigarette. It definitely wasn't Brent. It was the kingpin of the 5-10 motor club: The V8.

Inside the warehouse's office, the V8 sat down, making himself comfortable, still wearing his sunglasses as if he was blinded by the collective nervousness of the room. Jonas sat down, silent for once in his life. He watched the V8, and opened his mouth like he'd picked an excuse, but only managed to spit out, "So… Brooklyn."

"What about it?" The V8 replied coolly.

"Just… uhh… nothing." Jonas said, falling silent again. The V8 looked around, and started laughing. "Damn… y'know, I stopped to check on the Vegas crew, and they were about ten times as talkative as you guys. But… then again, they weren't trying to fix a little fuck up, now were they."

"Kingpin… look…" Jonas started, but he was quickly silenced by the V8, who held his hand up.

"Shhh. I'll get to the business in a minute. First off though… you." he said, pointing at Jonny, who perked up.  
"Yes sir?" Jonny asked, his heart beating fast.

"Where's your ink at, son?"

"I haven't earned it yet." Jonny replied. His heart skipped a beat… was this his chance to earn it?

"Do me a quick favor and fuck off a moment, yeah?" The V8 said. Jonny looked dumbfounded, not budging for a second, but quickly moved out when one of the kingpin's guards stepped forward. Kingpin smiled at him as he left, before clearing his throat a moment after.

"So, what happened?"

"Well… we hit an HCM warehouse off the 6, and wasn't anticipating a guard to see us. New guy, not on the payroll… he called it in and we had SCPD jump on it. Bruiser and Prancer went back for the loot but…" Jonas started.

"Cars?"

"A Focus RS, and an F-150 Raptor. The Focus is in a CHP impound yard, but I got guys working on stripping the strip dropper and EMP off it."

"Didn't ask, but fine. So… Bruiser is… you, I'm assuming… that your truck outside?" Kingpin said, looking at Bruiser.

"Aye, sir. That's mine."

"Pretty impressive setup you got. Bullbars, armor panels… were those breakaways I saw on the quarter panels?" Kingpin asked.

"So that a pit maneuver attempt would cause the cop to lose control." Bruiser said. A drop of sweat appeared on his forehead, running down the right side of his face.

"You're the V2 here, right?"

"Aye, sir… I am."

"Aight. So why didn't you come in and back up Prancer?"

"I'm sorry, Kingpin… I had my mask off, I was ahead of him, and I knew that if I went back I'd be cornered when the SCPD caught up."

"...understood. So you left your boy behind and went for cover…"

"I told him to keep close to Prancer and keep his ass covered." Jonas jumped in, but he was cut off as one of Kingpin's men slammed his face into the table. Jonas recoiled, cursing in pain, and guarding his now bleeding nose. "...the fuck, man?!"

"Don't ever fuckin' interrupt me again, Jonas. Now, where was I? Oh yeah… you left your boy behind… in turn making sure that it was only one ink in custody, and not accompanied by a V2 or his modified truck. And if you had intervened, I doubt you'd be able to escape if you would've had to stop and rescue him… which would've earned you an assault against an officer charge." Kingpin said, nodding. "You mean to tell me that a Focus RS was lacking and stayed behind a six ton Raptor? Jonas, what the fuck?"

"Prancer wanted to drop a strip to try an immobilize the dude chasing him."

"Was it PIU?"

"No… some dick in a crown vic." Jonas said. Kingpin narrowed his eyes, and snapped his fingers. The guy who slammed Jonas cocked his arm back and socked him in the cheek, sending the V4 falling off his chair and onto the floor. The other members tensed, and Bruiser's eyes widened. Kingpin, however, just grinned at him, a gesture that both intimidated yet calmed him. He then turned his gaze to Jonas and chuckled. "So, you wasted a fucking strip on some regular patrol cop? If it'd been a fucking PIU sergeant in a Bugatti, I'd be a little more understanding. But some regular joe? Those fuckin' things are five grand a pop RETAIL value. We gotta pay double that for some to 'fall off' a truck and end up in our hands. Where the fuck is Prancer now?"

"SCPD Central Holding. We got 25 grand set up to bail him out."

"What does he know?"

"Not much… Kingpin, his ink's still fresh. He barely knows about our warehouses."

"Fuck him then. I'm callin' some guys, we'll have him go through the process and I'll make sure he keeps quiet if he ever wants to get out. Bruiser…" Kingpin turned his attention away from Jonas.

"Aye?"

"The money's yours. Get your shit fixed, get yourself some nice things for your family… and keep that truck off the highway for the time being. I'll get you a Dodge RAM for anything highway related. You should be fine on the streets though. I need intel on the SCPD, and anyone that might've been involved on that chase."

"There was one guy who crashed… CHP." Jonas sputtered, wiping blood from his mouth as he reclaimed his seat. "I can get his name and see if we can ID his deployment schedule."

"Don't fuck that up, Jonas. I'm already hurting from this little shitshow you brought me into. I'm heading back out to San Bernardino. We're taking a charter flight back to New York. Once I get there, I better hear a fuckin' successful operation. Now, what's this bullshit I picked up about a big rig from the V6?"

"We were… gonna roll a rig down to Tijuana to bring some shit into the US… Big money." Jonas said. Bruiser ground his teeth in annoyance.

"Uhh, no. Last thing we need right now is a fucking DEA investigation. If you're smuggling it stays domestic. West coast to east coast. I actually might have an op for you if you're willing to try it. I'll shoot you the details. Change out your burners and gather your street racers. Have them run some interference so that the cops are busy dealing with them. Put some money on 'em too. Best case scenario, you start earning some cash back. Worst case, SCPD's gonna have their hands tied dealing with anyone taking part in a car meet."

"Gotcha… I actually think Jonny's crew is meeting by the school. I'll head over there and see if they can run a meet tonight."

"Good boy. And let's test the loyalty of this kid. I need some more ink bearers in this county. I have a feeling it's gonna get real busy this winter. Now, get it done." he said, standing up. He walked over to Jonas, and chuckled, patting his shoulder. "Do… not… fail… me." he said slowly, before grabbing his cane and walking out. Bruiser stood, glancing over at his bleeding V4, before heading out himself.

* * *

 **Mission Beach High School**

 **11/23/2017 - 14:32:14**

There was a small gathering of cars in the parking lot of the high school, most of them Honda Civics or Accords. There were a few Subarus and an older Ford Ranger there, and many of the guys around it were either vaping or smoking weed inside their cars. A few people were skateboarding, and they all were talking about what sort of modification they could put on their cars. Jonny's Subaru pulled in and parked among the cars, and he stepped out, looking nervous.

"Hey Jonny, you get your ink at this super important meeting?" laughed one of the skaters.

"Shut up, Grant." he said, getting out of his car. He closed it, and glanced at the driveway to the school's parking lot. Grant raised a brow and followed his gaze. "You expecting something?"

"Probably thought he was being tailed." said a guy sitting in the bed of the Ranger. He was a tall, gangly kid with large glasses. He jumped off the bed and spat, inhaling from his vape and blowing it out.

"Ryder? Thought you were booked." Jonny said.

"I was… dad bailed me out. Lost my fucking ride though. Dude, this is bullshit. The damn cops are cracking down with all the people on the road for Thanksgiving. When are we getting a chance to really make some cash?"

"Soon, man. Soon." Jonny said, reaching into his car and grabbing a cluster of envelopes. He began to hand them out "Here's our cut for the dealing profits… and the winnings to those who rolled on the Fox Lair race."

Ryder grabbed his, and opened it. He pulled out his cash, and looked up. "Two fucking hundred?! Dude, I lost my car in that race… I gotta hit court now!" he said angrily. A few other voices rose up, complaining about their money.

"Guys, chill! I don't decide how much the 5-10 cuts out. We got some serious issues and it's hard enough with them bearing on me." he said.

"Dude you're full of shit. You can't pay us but I saw that nice lift you put on your WRX. Where's our money really going?" Ryder growled, stepping closer. "We're tired of doing this shit to impress your fake friends. I've never even seen you meet with these guys… always in secret."

"I said chill, man. It's all gonna work itself out soon… trust me.." he said. As if on cue, an engine roared down the road. The group turned to look for it's source, and Jonny cracked a grin as Bruiser's Raptor growled into the parking lot. It pulled up to the group of cars, before it's engine shut off. Bruiser stepped out, his hair down, and looked up at the others. Ryder cocked a brow, looking him over. "Who're you? Hey, someone call Gandalf, he's missing one of his elves."

Bruiser chuckled, joining the laughter of the others, before swinging and smashing his fist into the side of Ryder's face, sending him reeling and falling to the ground. He reached up, and unzipped his hoodie. The others might have started fighting back, but they were preoccupied by the sight of his 5-10 ink and the large ink of a V2 on his chest. The all stopped, glaring at him.

"What's up?" he said loudly, stepping over Ryder. "Step one towards earnin' your ink. Don't fucking act like some high school class clown when a V2 rolls up on you." he said, jerking a thumb towards the Cobra mark on his truck. "My name is Bruiser. At least, it is as far as you kids are concerned. If you learn my real name, it either means you're earning your ink, or your snoopin' in shite that'll get you knocked out." he said. Ryder stood up, holding his face, his cracked glasses in his hands. Bruiser pointed at him, "You are already about negative five points towards your ink, so shut your gob and maybe you'll get a chance to redeem it." he said. "The 5-10 is hosting a trial race for rookies like you to prove you might have what it takes to roll with us. Race is gonna start right here in Mission Beach, by the pier, and roll all the way through to to Three Points. The top three will get a chance to race in an actual 5-10 event, and get your name out there for a chance to earn your ink. That, and 1, 5, and 10k if you make third, second or first." he said. The others glared back in surprise. That was a good chunk of money for one race. "If you got a car in impound, talk to Jonny, and we'll cover the expense for its release and prep for the race. It'll be next Saturday… so make your shit ready by then. SCPD will be out, so… keep an eye and try not to get busted till then. We'll also be accepting bets on the day of the race, so bring your allowances, kids." he said, patting Jonny on the shoulder and making his way back to his truck. The message was out… now it was just time for the others to bite.


End file.
